


An Awkward Discovery

by hoaxsuicide (orphan_account)



Series: It must be a Monday... [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluffy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Sexy Times, Smut, part of a series, rated for overall series, there is a promise of red pants sexy times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hoaxsuicide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers something about John that he never really expected...well, something about John's /clothes/ that he never really expected...<br/>((rated for later chapters, kay?))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Glance in the Wrong Direction.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes the discovery and John is not too happy about it...not happy at all. But what's with this look?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very literal, in the knick(er) of time Red Pants Monday fic! This will hopefully be the first of a new series i will be starting, of which I will update every Monday! Some of them may be linked, but others maybe stand alone, I will specify though so don't worry!

 

“John…?” The rich baritone voice of Sherlock Holmes sounded from the living room, a hint of uncertainty in his voice cracked to the surface and John knew that there was something wrong, after all, the ‘Great Sherlock Holmes’ never sounded uncertain of himself.

Unfortunately, John wasn’t really in a position to react. The both of them had spent the whole morning, and most of the afternoon, scouting around the flat trying to find something that Sherlock had _obviously_ misplaced but just wasn’t admitting to. John, for his part, found himself in Sherlock's room, flat on his belly under his bed, cursing and scraping up everything he could find to see if it was there.

In fact, he spent that long searching for the damn thing, he had quite forgotten what it was he was searching for in the first place.

“John!?” he sounded again, more annoyed this time. John would have answered him but the damn torch in his mouth made that pretty- _fucking_ -hard. The doctor breathed heavily through his nose, anger prickling up his spine as he heard an annoyed huff from the room next door.

“John! John where are--John! What are you doing under there!?” Sherlock exclaimed, his voice drifting from the doorway.

 _‘right, that’s it’_ John let the torch drop from his mouth and –in all this anger- attempted to get up, quite forgetting there was a bed above his head and hitting said head rather hard on the underside. He made the executive decision that getting up was a bad idea and wriggling out from under the bed took too long, so instead he just hollered from where he was.

“I’m searching for that _goddamn_ thing that _you_ , yes _you_ Sherlock, ‘happened’ to lose!” he roared, feeling all but a little ridiculous with the upper half of his body under his flatmates’ bed. There was a moment of silence in which John was _sure_ he heard Sherlock trying not to laugh before he pronounced blandly,

“Well, it’s not going to be under there, idiot.” as if it had already crossed his mind.

John almost exploded with humiliation and anger, he dragged himself out from the other side of the bed and appeared a second later, bedraggled and rumpled, on the opposite side of where he started. For a split second he thought about how strange that would have looked for Sherlock, just seeing your flatmate’s legs disappear under your bed and then his head pop up from the side a moment later, his hair tousled and unkempt from being on the floor so long.

Watson threw this thought violently to the back of his mind for fear that he may laugh and spoil it all, he stood to his feet and jabbed a finger at his flatmate who stood there with a surreptitious, smug look on his face.

“Why don’t _you_ try looking for this _thing_ then?!” he asserted rather louder than he had meant to, “Because all I’ve seen you doing is wandering around with that ‘aloof’ look on your face and, let me tell you…” he laughed threateningly “It’s not doing a whole lot of good, is it?” he ended on a condescending tone and suddenly wished he hadn’t as he saw Sherlock’s expression darken.

It seemed as if the detective wanted to make some witty, clever comment but he bit back, instead walking further into the room with a decidedly pleasant look on his face.

“Still, it was worth it.” He chuckled, turning his attention to some papers he had left on his pillow and seemingly ignoring John's telling off.

“Worth what, Sherlock?” John snapped, folding his arms over his chest as he shifted the weight from his feet. The detective looked up at John, a sly smile worming its way across his features.

“Oh, you know…” The detective made a gesture towards the floor “Seeing you laid under my bed like that…actually quite hilarious”

John forced himself to keep calm, after all, whatever the idiot was saying, he was saying it on purpose just to annoy the doctor.

“Listen, anyway…” John started, making an effort to change the subject before there was any blood shed “What did you want me for?” the good doctor tilted his chin up a notch, waiting for an answer with an expectant look on his face. Sherlock straightened his back and pinned his piercing eyes on John; they shared a look for a second before Sherlock spoke.

“I was inquiring as to whether or not you have found anything and, seeing as though you haven’t, I’ll just be—“

“No…” John interrupted; there was hitch in Sherlock's tone that suggested he was hiding something. “No,” he continued “You sounded disconcerted before, you never normally sound like that, what was wrong?”

Sherlock's eyes widened only slightly, his body language becoming fidgety.

“I just said John, I was wondering if you had--” John laughed suddenly causing Sherlock to grind to a halt, “What’s so funny?”

John hadn’t meant to laugh, at least not out loud, but it had just hit the doctor why Sherlock was acting this way and, to be honest, it was pretty damn hilarious. Sherlock continued to fix John with a steely look, slight embarrassment and worry stayed uncovered under his eyes; the detective continued to wait for an answer.

“You’ve forgotten haven’t you?” John pitched, giving Sherlock an expression of high amusement, the doctor didn’t even have to wait to see if he was correct, the look Sherlock gave him was enough to go by. “You, the ‘Great Sherlock Holmes’ has forgotten why he came to talk to me.” John continued to teased, shaking his head slightly in disbelief, a small smile playing on his lips. He doubted he would ever let this go, doubted he _wanted_ to after seeing the look on the stoic man’s face.

“Don’t be ridiculous John, I never forget--” Sherlock protested but was cut off by John barking a laugh once more to prove his denial. Sherlock sighed curtly and looked down at the floor, gritting his teeth.

“Yes, okay…” he uttered, but John just couldn’t leave this alone, this was almost as good as the time that Sherlock thought that Greg’s name was ‘Lestrade’; John had never stopped joking about that throughout the whole day.

“ _Yes_ what, Sherlock?” the doctor continued to probe, watching as the detective grimaced at the floor in the realisation that he would have to humiliate himself further. Another sigh.

“Yes, I did forget. But look, it’s not my fault, I was distracted!” he hurried, a twang of desperation in his voice. John ticked a brow, glaring at Sherlock with an expression that had quickly changed from “ _I’m enjoying this’_ to _‘Oh-fucking-really?’_ so quickly he could shame even some of the best mime artists.

“Oh?” he started, shifting on his feet once more “And since when does Sherlock Holmes get distracted?” Sherlock looked very uncomfortable for a second before returning to his cool demeanour, throwing John a sharp stare from under his fringe.

“Since now, problem?” the sleuth adjusted his stance slightly, tilting his head in an arrogant manor.

“Yeah, actually, what by?” John interrogated and wasn’t at all happy by the way Sherlock paused for a second, his features flushed with shame.

“My room…”

“What in your room?”

 Pause.

“…You…”

“Me?”

“Yes.” There was a long beat between them, in which John had to sit down on the edge of the bed. Him? The great Sherlock Holmes had been distracted by him? John didn’t even want to venture further into this; he was already feeling like someone had ripped a hole into his stomach. Sherlock must have sensed the apprehension in the air because suddenly a rich voice rang out.

“No, John, you misunderstood me…” he tried feebly, already aware of the fact that maybe he should have worded that a little bit better. John stood from the bed, his legs felt hollow for reasons that he couldn’t even understand, let alone describe , however he needed to hear what Sherlock had to say, just to be sure that this was all cleaned up.

Sherlock's face was a mixture of embarrassment, hurt and pity for John who didn’t understand, someone else might have found this a strange mixture of emotions for one human being, but not John.

“Listen, what I meant was that it wasn’t you who had _personally_ distracted me…” he proclaimed, smirking slightly as he realised just how stupid John was being. Oh, well there was the anger again, back and fighting in John's stomach.

“What then? What my… _clothes_ distracted you or what?” he made a cold attempt at a joke, not really expecting a serious answer, but then again he should have known better, Sherlock was always ‘Mr Punch line’.

“As a matter of fact…”

“Oh, what!?” John interrupted yet again and this time Sherlock was starting to look pretty sick of it.

“What, John?!” he spat but John didn’t recoil.

“You mean my _clothes_ distracted you?!” he failed to believe that was the reason behind it all, it was utterly absurd, “You’ve seen these clothes a lot of times Sherlock, how on earth can they distract you?!” he blinked at the consulting detective who seemed to be looking very pissed off at being cut off by his flatmate for most of the conversation.

“Yes, John…” he spat “But I never realised that you wore red pants…” his eyebrows shot up and now it was his turn to grin. John stopped dead in his tracks, or at least whatever tracks he had been planning on taking, because now the road was gone and it didn’t feel like John could structure a coherent thought in his mind.

“Red…what?” he could feel his face flushing. His flatmate had stolen a glimpse of his underwear—his embarrassingly _red_ underwear no doubt—he had taken note of what colour they were and _god damn_ , he had even got _bloody distracted_ by his bloody _red_ underwear!

“Red pants John, do keep up…” the detective scoffed, his smile growing wider in that all too familiar expression of ‘ _it was obvious’_ that Sherlock seemed to wear so well. “While you were on the floor, the band of your underwear was showing, quite easily spotted with a colour as vibrant as red.” Sherlock explained, although John didn’t need the explanation.

He was mortified, of all the underwear he could have worn today, why did he have to wear the damn _red_ ones. It was embarrassing enough, to say the least, that Sherlock had noticed such a thing, but then he didn’t really know what he had expected, he was dealing with Mr ‘I observe everything’.

“I just have one question though…” Sherlock's voice broke him out of his thoughts and suddenly he was in front of him, _Jesus Christ_ , he hadn’t even seen him move! John swallowed hard as the detective neared him, a sarcastic yet studious expression masked his face and when their eyes met, the scrutinising look was so intense that John almost felt the need to back away.

“What?” his voice cracked, dreading all the embarrassing questions Sherlock could ask him. Oh for god’s sake! Why did he feel so scared, Sherlock just about knew every other damn piece of clothing that he wore day in day out, even so much as to go and say which pieces were his favourite, so why was underwear any different?

But it was different, something was different. Sherlock had a strange, almost predatory look in his eyes that John was unused to and it put him on edge. That ice blue look burned a hole through his own eyes until he was sure he should be seeing white light around now.

“Why red?” his rich tone made the doctor flinch out of the hypnotising effect those eyes were having him, he steeled his glance and tried not to act like a swooning School girl, for Christ’s sake!

“Why…red?” he puzzled, to make sure if he had heard the question correctly, Sherlock sighed in annoyance but said nothing. “Right, erm, well, they weren’t my choice really, they were more of a--”

“Gift? Hm. I thought so, judging they were by the fact that you seem to despise them so much, however you seem to still wear them but underwear doesn’t really have sentimental value, right?” he didn’t wait for an answer “Right. So they were given to you in some sort of multipack set and now it’s all you can afford to wear, which underlines less of a gift and more of a joke…meaning, Harry gave them to you. Tell me, am I wrong?”

John stood there in silence for a second, speechless but also confused, had Sherlock noticed his underwear just to tell him all this stuff? Just to impress him?

Surely not so then, why? Was he…? John stopped for a second, his mind clicking into place, was he embarrassed about it and now he was trying to cover up? That did seem a lot like a ‘Sherlock’ thing to do.

“I’m waiting…” Sherlock moaned around a sigh and John realised what it was he was meant to be saying.

“Oh, uh, no, no you weren’t…that was…bang on yes, very good” he nodded in approval and felt a little prickle of pride at the smile that the detective held back on his face.

“Well, very good.” Sherlock continued, stepping away from John and walking towards the door “Thank you for that little boredom buster, now, we must really find that case study, Lestrade will be wanting it by tomorrow and we really can’t disappoint him.” He trailed off as he exited the room and left John standing there, utterly bewildered and confused.

Surely Sherlock hadn’t come in here for a silly little deduction had he? What was with that piercing look? Just the thought of those eyes were giving John feelings that he deemed highly inappropriate for a heterosexual man such as himself to be thinking.

Pushing all these thoughts to the back of his mind, John took hold of the matter in hand. At least now he knew what he was looking for again, but now the only trouble was where to find it? John sighed and turned his attention to Sherlock's draws by the side of his bed, making sure that he checked what was in there before opening them too wide…he didn’t want a repeat of last time. John shuddered; he doubted Sherlock even still knew he had those dead toads in his draw.

The doctor rummaged through all the draws and cupboards, still finding nothing that resembled a case study or file of any sort, Sherlock should really start learning to type things down instead of write them.

Every now and then, his mind couldn’t help wandering back to that icy blue stare on his, but he forced himself to let all of this slide until tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he could talk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, the next one will be up next Monday (if I remember)...  
> Please leave reviews!  
> If you want to find me, follow my tumblr on 'hoaxsuicide'!
> 
> (Btw to those of you who are reading my I AM SMUT LOCKED story, don't worry, I will update soon, I haven't found the time in a while...)


	2. Speak Now or Forever Be Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has several bones to pick with Sherlock but Sherlock is--as usual-- having none of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Runs up to you* Hey YOU! LOOK, I'VE UPDATED MY ACCOUNT!  
> *Crowd laughs*...erm...no...really I have, look *hands you new chapter*  
> *silence falls, "IT'S A TRICK!" Someone screams and tries to run off*  
> Anyway! I have made an executive decision that for this series, I will build on their so called 'red pants' relationship in this fic and any other red pants related stuff that isn't relevant to the story line I will post separately in the series...Okay?  
> Enjoy Guys, author out! *falls off stage*

You know that it’s going to be one of ‘those mornings’ when you wake up and have to manually go back to your bedroom to turn off your alarm clock. John was having one of those mornings; he had woken up at four o’clock when his alarm clock was originally set for eight.

It was a Sunday and so John had no work, which only gave him more time to wander aimlessly around the flat for a few hours, occupying himself with useless tasks such as manually washing all the glasses and ordering the jars in size order. He had an irrational fear that he was becoming like Sherlock, sorting out all his ties to their dominant colour.

Speaking of the detective, it seemed as if he had decided to go to sleep for once as he was nowhere to be seen, in fact the only reminder of his presence was the mess of the flat as well as the quite snoring John could hear from the next room.

Papers were strewn everywhere, covering all the surfaces in an attempt to tell John that Sherlock had gotten quite frustrated at some point (most likely when he was looking for that case study of his), the sleuth’s fine blue dressing gown was draped carelessly over the settee and an unimaginable array of coffee mugs were balanced in the most obscene places.

Amongst all the rubble was a single file, stood up on the table. John had navigated around it for most of the morning and had come to the conclusion that it was the case study that was oh-so-important to Sherlock.

Good, well at least they could get that to Lestrade and it would be one less thing to fret about.

‘ _One_ less thing’ was said within good reason, John had quite a few things to mull over, so much in fact that it would put a brooding sinner to shame. That’s not to say the things that what he was ‘brooding’ was exactly _sinful_ to say the least but…well…he was starting to wonder whether or not they were appropriate.

Only about fifteen hours ago, Sherlock had discovered about John's absurd choice in underwear and throughout those hours, he could tell that Sherlock was somehow judging him. He knew that was a ridiculous idea, I mean, the great Sherlock Holmes, judging someone for something as miniscule as their choice in underwear? _Absurd!_

But then what about that look he had given him? That hungry, almost animalistic look that had passed across Sherlock's face while he was teasing John, that look which had sucked John into his gaze for what felt like a millennia but was only in fact two seconds? That hypnotising gaze…?

That was definitely out of the ordinary for Sherlock and if anything, John should have felt threatened but he couldn’t help himself feeling something else…the something else that he feared was ‘inappropriate’.

I’m sure if your gaze was held by two icy blue irises that darkened as the light was obscured from his face and sparkled when not, then you would start to feel a little heated too. However ‘heated’ wasn’t exactly the word.

I mean, don’t get him wrong, John wasn’t gay but he did seem to be thinking a lot of what would be labelled ‘gay’ thoughts about his flatmate. He tried to reason with himself (as one would in that situation) that this was just a little school boy crush and was possibly nothing more than intense admiration for the man, after all he was a genius.

However, much to the doctor’s silent protests, these little school boy ‘crushes’ had sky rocketed to something else recently and John betted that that look was the trigger of it, it had to be.

Trying to clear his mind from this topic, John heaved himself into the settee, settling down but still staying uncomfortable. God, what was wrong with him today, he was…stressed, and he had no good idea why.

Of course he could just say it was because of his alarmingly attractive flat mate, but what good, denial riddled man would tell that to himself? John, naturally, because that’s exactly what he told himself and scarily enough, he was rather calm about it; it seemed to soothe him down.

The doctor’s eyes wandered over to the red folder that sat on the surprisingly clear coffee table, pushing those thoughts away once more. It must be important to Sherlock, what, for him to search all day for it yesterday and to even make room for it so it was the only thing that stood on the table.

God, John was even starting to _think_ like Sherlock.

John would have reached for it but no doubt it would just be filled with ordinary case notes and a few scribbled descriptions of things that John didn’t have the mind set to understand this morning. In any case, Sherlock would be up soon and he would possibly be more than happy to tell John _all_ about it.

Tearing his eyes away from the folder, John concluded that the colour of the thing (red) was doing nothing of his ‘leave those thoughts alone’ plan. Oh but for god’s sake, why? Out of all the things Sherlock could have teased him about, why did he have to pick his embarrassing eighteen-year-old-mommy’s-boy underwear?!

John huffed out another sigh, passing his hand over his chin and came to the decision that he needed a shave, the silvery blond stubble pronouncing on his jaw quite clearly.

With what must have been the twentieth sigh that day, the good doctor hoisted himself from the uncomfortable chair (only to realise he’d been sitting on a clump of what he presumed to be dirty clothes—Jesus Christ) and made his way to the bathroom. Surprisingly enough, despite the flat having two rooms, there was only just the one bathroom and it was en suite to the living room.

John didn’t bother locking the door, he knew Sherlock wouldn’t be up in a while anyway, and started to run cold water into the sink until it gathered in a generous puddle in the basin.

Stretching out a knot in his back, John thought it would be best to take off his shirt before shaving, he would only get shaving foam on it anyhow and he didn’t fancy changing his clothes at only 9 o’clock in the morning.

He carefully unbuttoned the garment and hung it neatly on the nearest towel rack to clothe when he was finished. Scooping some water into his hands he splashed his face with it to ensure a clean, close shave. He unconsciously scrubbed his hands over his eyes the way a stressed man would in a dire situation; his situation wasn’t dire but he did feel more than a little afflicted.

Hands tensing against his face and creating stiff muscles in his shoulders, John grieved yet another murmur of displeasure and brought his hands down to gaze into his reflection, his figure hunched over the sink like the Phantom of the opera ahead his organ. Steady droplets of water glided down his features, his skin ashen with fatigue. The stubble was clearly visible now from his chin, small stubs of slivery blond bristles protruding from his jawline and over his chin; John brought his fingertips up to the hair now and could clearly feel them prickling the pads of his fingers.   

Ghosting his hand once more over the stubble as if confirming his original instinct of ‘needing a shave’, the doctor extended his reach to a cabinet above his head, stretching for his razor. The movement caused his shoulder to come into display in the mirror and John paused, running his eyes over the scar that had made its home there. It wasn’t an entirely dramatic scar, nothing compared to the god awful wounds he’s had to stitch up back in the forces—god, some of things that had happened to the guys back there…— but it was still there and it always caught John's eye like a gravy stain on a crisp, white shirt.

He winced slightly as he retrieved his razor, pushing some unpleasantly and unintentionally graphic thoughts from his mind and placing the object on the edge of the sink, his eyes still being drawn to the furrowed entrance wound, it would have only been about 4cm in diameter and the shot would have been taken in close range. Watson settled his fingers over the pinkish, almost silky skin and knew that if he turned around he would be able to see clearly the exit wound that formed a starburst across the muscles and flesh, indicating exactly how many stitches, how forceful, what bullet, what gun.

He shook his head slightly and hastily opened the mirrored cabinet in front of him to reach for the shaving foam, faintly aware of his reflection moving ghost like across the mirror to appear once more as he shut the cabinet, staring at him with dull, tired eyes.

_God, he really needed to sleep for longer._

Applying some shaving foam into his palm, he spread it over his jaw, relishing as it foamed up against his skin. He would always fondly watch his father shaving when he was younger, pure awe crossing his features as he watched his dad suddenly transform from ‘dad’ into a slightly less butterball version of Father Christmas of which smelt less like mince pies and more like mint; He remembered always being confused as to how and why the foam would froth like that.

Taking his razor in hand, he seemed so caught up in his memories that he didn’t notice movement around the flat until Sherlock stumbled, a little dazed, into the bathroom. He froze and they both shared a look through the mirror as time seemed to stand still for a second.

John managed to compose his—not as drowsy—features faster than Sherlock and, smiling, brought the razor up to his face, scraping away a steady line of stubble to reveal smooth skin beneath.

“Good Morning.” He spoke cheerily, keeping eye contact with Sherlock through the mirror as he blinked away the sleep from his eyes. He was wearing the usual attire Sherlock wore to bed only it was slightly more crinkled due to the new addition of him _actually_ sleeping in it. Seemingly, the great detective was more than a little disorganised after a night’s sleep.

 _‘Probably why he never bothers usually’_ John mused to himself as he directed his attention back to shaving, tilting his head up slightly to get under his chin while his other fingers pulled the skin tight to allow easy access.

Sherlock swayed on the spot a little and ran a hand through his already ruffled curls as if trying to return some composure to them before turning dramatically out of the bathroom in his usual aloof way.

“Hurry up!” he grumbled as he left, “You’re not the only one who lives here you know!?”

John's smile fell and he shared a look with his reflection, shaking his head in disdain; and here he was thinking that Sherlock Holmes might be a pleasant human being in the mornings.

 

 

 

John finished up shaving with a little less glamour than he would have hoped, wiped himself free of shaving foam and slipped back into his shirt before exiting the bathroom, being sure to make a song and dance about how he had to rush his pleasant morning’s shave for a certain _someone_.

However, no matter of light hearted humour could cover the yearning John felt just under his solar plexus, a sort of sick feeling  that he first assumed was sadness but then concluded it was in fact curiosity. Why had Sherlock pointed such a thing out—the underwear that is--? I mean, that wasn’t like Sherlock, was it?

Oh damn it all, maybe it was like Sherlock, maybe Sherlock took a keen interest in underwear colours and he just didn’t notice it until now. But still, that didn’t explain that look or especially the sudden attraction John felt to that look. Christ, _attraction?!_ Was he serious!?

John mentally slapped himself for using such vocabulary and padded through to the kitchen. He took a moment to stare in horror as their—once clean and in order—kitchen was now just as chaotic as it was before.

“I moved some stuff around, hope you don’t mind” said a voice from the living room and John whirled around just as Sherlock looked up from his paper. “Is the bathroom empty? Marvelous!” he exclaimed with a thin smile and got up out of his armchair.

“Sherlock…” John started as the slueth walked away, apparently not hearing The doctor and closing the bathroom door behind him. John blinked at this rejection and looked glumly back to the clutter covering the kitchen sides before hastly picking his way towards the kettle.

Oh.

No, that was it, that was the _last straw_! Bloody _eyes_! In the _kettle_!

Doctor Watson marched across the living room in such a rage that he didn’t even think before he almost tore open the bathroom door. Sherlock seemed to have been in the middle of taking his grey, cotton top off but he let his fall back over his stomach now and fixed John with an inquisitive glance.

“Good morning?” He greeted in confusion, arching an eyebrow. John took in a breath before he spoke but it did nothing to calm him down.

“ _Eyes_!” He shouted, enraged.

“Yes, they are.”

“No Sherlock!” the detective was trying his patience now, “No, _eyes_ , in the _bloody_ kettle!” the last words seemed to deflate from John as he became aware of how fucked up a situation this was.

“Oh, you found them then…” was all Sherlock had to offer and John looked at him evenly with an expression that displayed just how dead Sherlock would be in a matter of seconds. “What, they were for an experiment, where else was I supposed to put them?” he shrugged his lanky shoulders as if was no big deal “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Yes I bloody DO mind, Sherlock!” The doctor almost exploded from his anger. Sherlock gave him a deflated look that made the muscles twitch in John's arm he was surprised he managed to hold back from punching him.

“Look John, if you’re that bothered then we can buy a new kettle, but for now can I get unchanged in private please?” Sherlock's voice was a tone down from spitting and it did nothing but curl the anger deeper into John's stomach.

“No, Sherlock!” he ran a hand down his features, not quite believing that he was having this conversation, what other man would converse with their flat share about eyes in the kettle?! “No, I think we need to talk about this…this and…” his courage and nerve left him at the last second and Watson’s voice dyed in his throat.

Sherlock's brow ticked up as his interest was piqued, his temporarily hazel green eyes narrowing to scan over his expression and all together he looked rather pleased with himself; the bastard.

“And…?” he urged, a sly grin twitched at the corners of his mouth and there was that look again, that hungry look, a look that made John's body burn as his eyes travelled over it. He looked to the floor, tightening his lips in annoyance and thought before looking back up at the sleuth.

“And other things that you just so happen not to care about, okay?” John heaved decidedly and Sherlock's expression changed to something of a scowl.

“I care about a lot of things John, and at the moment the first thing on that list is using this bathroom, so if you don’t mind…” He made a shooing motion with his hands and his look was so condescending that John felt compelled to stay rooted to the spot, his expression stony. Once the great detective realised what choice of action John had decided to take, his features twisted into a scowl once more.

“Fine!” He asserted, a twang of reluctance in his voice “Then I shall just have to change with you in the room!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUUUN DUUUUN DUUUUUUUN *CLIFFHANGER ALERT*  
> Sorry for the cliffhanger, I just wanted to get something done before Monday was over *sobs in the corner*  
> Anyway, if you enjoyed please let me know!  
> Oh and my tumblr url changed! it's now 'hoaxsuicide'  
> By the way, for those of you asking , I can't update this EVERY Monday! Can you imagine how stressful that would be for me, on top of all my school work...? That and it takes me a few weeks to get something that is postable okay, I'm not a miracle worker, I am but a lonely author...


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